I cry for help.
I roll my sleeves up,
I keep the under eyes sore and red,
The books I read they are not what you would expect,
I isolate then scream out,
The constant times of me shutting myself in,
The doors are closed so tightly,
I run into the sunset every day, wondering if I could disappear right after colliding with the sunlight.
The ever-tiring struggle to turn around and not pick up the sharpest object I could find,
In every way that makes me smile, while pushing the bitterness deep down in myself, I still cry for help.